Colliding Empires
by WonderwallJM
Summary: London is an empire. Streets filled with different shades of amber lights, people with different layers of complexion and buildings standing with different tales. Sherlock Holmes knows every insignificant fragment of London. He'd even go so far to say it is his domain, his empire. But even those shadows cast by those amber lights can be misleading, and so can your own mind.
1. Snap Out Of It

1\. Snap Out Of It - What's been happening in your world? What have you been up to?

There were too many types for Sherlock to process. Why does the country of Great Britain see fit to have so many different types of the delightful beverage that is tea? PG Tips was crossed off the list immediately considering there was an odd looking puppet/sock thing gracing the front of the box. It is tea, not a child's plaything. Sherlock's eyes wandered to the next row of boxes where there was another brand printed on to the box. Before Sherlock could even begin to consider if this tea would suffice for Mrs Hudson, images began filling his memory of days spent in Yorkshire with his despicable brother Mycroft and his parents. Wet, windy and strangely tranquil. No, Yorkshire Tea shall not be in 221B. The place was miserable enough with John not there and the ramblings of Mrs Hudson. The next was Twinings which seemed the most alluring so far. The most important factor (being the tea itself) were in a black box with a little pointless pattern on the front with no strange talking sock thing or unwanted memories clung to them.

The detective grabbed the box of Twinings from the shelf and began fast walking towards the aisle the biscuits were situated at. He felt as if the biscuits should be next to where the tea was situated. Tea and biscuits obviously go wonderfully together so why don't the shop save the hassle for people and place them together? This time he needed no time to think of what brand and what type of biscuit to buy because there is obviously only one winner; pink wafers. With a little smile and his heart skipping a beat, he scooped up 5 packets of pink wafers and headed towards the shops exit, purposely forgetting to pay for his much needed biscuits and tricky tea.

"Mrs Hudson! I feel as if I should give you the tea now otherwise they shall be under the sink for the rest of eternity." Sherlock shouted into the oddly silent hallway. There was no sound emitting from Mrs Hudson's apartment. No sound of the television or radio or the sound of clanking pots and pans. It then crossed Sherlock's mind how quiet the streets of central London were and the shop he purposefully stole from. The streets of London weren't echoing with the thump of pubs and clubs or the wailing of emergency vehicles. No alarmingly bright red buses trailing through the unusually empty roads. Sherlock was pulled out of his recollection of his way home at the sound of the locks of Mrs Hudson's front door. Sherlock watched as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared in her dressing gown, all heavy-eyed and hair ruffled.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson" he says while handing her the cold box of Twinings, "I hope this tea will suffice considering I have absolutely no idea which tea brand you usually buy. There are too many to choose from. Britain as a nation is very indecisive."

Mrs Hudson didn't reply and instead stood with a vacant face looking directly at Sherlock. The detective furrowed his eyebrows at her facial expression, unsure why she looked so puzzled. Instead, Sherlock brushed off her silence and began walking towards the stairs. "I will be in the kitchen. Two sugars." He states before taking one last glance at her before ascending the stairs.

Sherlock arrived into 221B and paused by the doorway, looking out to the furnishings, paper and the random bits and pieces of his flat. His flat. It was odd even to think it was just his now. For so long he had shared the flat with John that it was quite unpleasant seeing it so empty. John's chair was correctly placed the left side of the fire still and for Sherlock it was extremely comforting to still have his chair in the flat. A piece of John always with him for when he is not there. And recently his visits have become less frequent. The arrival of the Watsons baby has disturbed the usual days of murder, mystery and mayhem.

Sherlock brushed away the thoughts and headed for his chair. While delicately placing himself in his chair, he grabbed a packet of his recently stolen pink wafers and began munching on the pink rectangles of happiness. Pink wasn't one of his favourite colours. Sherlock thought about the time he was made to wear a pink shirt by his parents. Absolutely hideous considering he also had chickenpox at the same time. He locked that memory firmly away and focused on eating the whole packet which was innocently waiting to be devoured.

Sherlock shuffled a little, the cold becoming more prominent as soon as he moved. He decided that was a bad decision and groaned before he began to focus on the voice that became louder by the second before it surfaced out of the mist and into the open.

"Sherlock!"

He jolted and sat bolt upright from the power in the voice, answering the best he could, "H-hey whoa… I didn't… oh." He was fully aware of the figure in front of him and to his surprise, it was John.

"Rough night?" John joked, placing himself in his chair, gesturing towards the pink crumbs over Sherlock's jacket and the half eaten packet of wafers wrapped in his arms.

"Hmph." Sherlock replied flatly, brushing the remainder of crumbs from himself. He felt a little embarrassed at the state of him but then again John has only seen him in a sheet at Buckingham Palace. Sherlock heavily sighed at the memory before he was interrupted.

"So, um, any improvements on the Blessington case?" John awkwardly asked, focusing more on the pink wafer packet that Sherlock was still cradling. John knew he liked pink wafers but not to this extent. Maybe it was his new addiction and on that thought, John smiled slightly, laughing inside much more than intended.

Sherlock sighed once again, "No. I visited the practice out of hours last night to see if our two sly men would return to collect something they didn't retrieve the first time however, there was nothing. Not even an attempt of a break in. Thoroughly disappointed if I must say."

John nodded before falling silent, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock clutching his pink wafers. It was amusing to see Sherlock attached to something so simple and unusual. John glanced up to find the detective's brows furrowed and eyes piercing through him in an innocent way.

"What?" Sherlock replied innocently, unaware of John biting the inside of his cheek.

"W-wh… Why are you holding that?"

"Holding what?" he replied, innocently, once again.

"That." John stated, gesturing towards the pink wafer packet. Was Sherlock actually unaware of himself clutching the packet or was he trying to act innocent? John's bet was on the latter.

The detective glanced down at his arms wrapped around the pink wafers like it was a precious childhood teddy. He doesn't even remember falling asleep here in his chair and he certainly doesn't remember Mrs. Hudson bringing him tea. He quickly glanced around the surrounding tables for a tea cup or pot of tea but there was nothing.

"What did you do with my tea cup?" Sherlock asked, only to be disappointed in the answer.

"What cup? I haven't touched a cup," John replied, leaning forward a little, "Look, Sherlock, we need to get on with this case. Your inbox is bursting and Lestrade isn't exactly going to solve it without you, is he?"

Sherlock, now annoyed snapped his head towards John, "Get on with this case? Exactly where have you been the past few days, weeks even?" he bitterly replied. How could John even have the balls to say that to him when _he_ has been waiting on John the past weeks? Sherlock stood, "Mrs Hudson! Where is that tea I asked for SEVEN hours ago?" he shouted to the lower layers of the building, stalking over to the living room door, wafers falling to the ground in a domino fashion.

"What? Me?" John exclaimed, standing from his chair and turning to face Sherlock by the door, "Has it slipped your mind that I have a baby and a wife to look after? Hm? The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock!"

"Obviously not because according to you, the world revolves around the sun," Sherlock said sarcastically, turning to face the doctor who was now stood right by him.

"Not this again! It is more significant than you are letting on, Sherlock. Even more significant than your pink wafers!" he yelled, the room falling silent.

The detective kept his eyes on the doctor, his eyes giving away that he was somewhat hurt at the fact John was taking the piss out of him for his love of pink wafers. Sherlock could do the same with John and his love for jumpers. He disliked arguing with John but this has been building up for weeks. It had been awkward between them when they were together. The detective didn't know if he was imagining it or if it was an actual problem. Unfortunately, the detective realised it was the latter.

The silence was sliced by the sound of Sherlock's mobile echoing into the room. John backed away knowing it was pointless to argue with Sherlock. He always had to have the last word, always had to win. The Reichenbach Fall was and still is a perfect example of this.

The detective dug out his phone, a little smirk working its way on his face before answering the phone. "Yes?" he rudely answered, the smirk now forming into a full sized grin. John watched on, impatiently waiting for Sherlock to hang up to let him in on the gossip.

"Marvellous" Sherlock happily replied, hanging up before grabbing his coat.

"What? What's happened?" the doctor quickly said, watching the detective put his coat on. John stood, taking a step closer to him as he waited for Sherlock's reply.

"Mr. Blessington has been found hanged in his bedroom." Sherlock replied, a little excitement in his voice.

"What? When?"

"This morning," Sherlock replied, picking up some essentials before heading towards the door, "Come on John, time is of the essence..," he paused by the door, looking back at the doctor who looked lost, "The game is on!"

And on that note the detective left the room and descended the stairs, shortly followed by the doctor, who, in all honesty, had missed the thrill of the chase.


	2. The Scientist

2\. The Scientist  
\- Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions. Let's go back to the start.

It was a quiet journey to Brook Street. Sherlock didn't see the point of making conversation with John. It'd most likely end up in an argument or even John punching Sherlock in the face. The most common arguments being either about the world revolving around the sun or about Moriarty. Unfortunately it seemed to be the latter at the moment.

It has been six months since the devilish charms of James Moriarty graced every screen in Great Britain and Sherlock's own fate had been pushed aside, for now. Since Sherlock had returned his inbox had been bursting with new cases but Moriarty was one that had to be solved before he could even begin on new ones. After his deductions from the plane, the detective knew Moriarty was dead. Sherlock latched on to this thought and a wave of sadness came over him. Moriarty was dead. His only equal in the world and he had shot his own brains out. The only thing was that his equal is still able to put Sherlock in a daze and prevent him solving on how he broadcast himself to the whole of Britain. They had made no progress. James Moriarty was still cocky as hell even from the grave. Mycroft was growing impatient each week but there was nothing they could do. Trying to crack the Moriarty case was even more difficult to digest than the fact the world goes around the sun.

The detective shook off Moriarty and began focusing on the case at hand. He glanced to the doctor on his right who had his eyes fixed on the window. It has been difficult with John. Their friendship has been pushed to the very edges in the past few months. John didn't believe Moriarty was dead even though it is virtually impossible to come back to life from shooting yourself in the head. Sherlock became frustrated at the words and the fact John doesn't believe the detective's ruling that he is in fact dead.

The cab luckily stopped on Brook Street to knock Sherlock out of the sour mood he had dug himself into. He stepped out the cab leaving John to irritatingly pay for the cab fare. The detective, shortly followed by John began cautiously strolling towards Blessington's practice where the case is currently taking place. Sherlock studied the surrounding buildings and people. It is vital to collect as much information of the surroundings as it could be essential to the case.

On arriving outside the doctor's practice, both men were greeted by Sergeant Donavon who was also not so pleased to see "the freak" as she politely puts it.

Donavon takes a step closer, a small smirk developing on her face, "Oh, so you're still in London then are you? I thought you would have been sent away by now."

John took a step closer to Sherlock protectively even though Sherlock had royally pissed him off, "Just leave it Donavon. You know why we are here so just let us in." The doctor simply stated. Sherlock smiled a little at the forwardness of his friend, taking a step forward towards the front door before Donavon rudely stood in front of him.

"Why should I let you in? Sherlock isn't exactly the right person to be at a crime scene seeing he was at the centre of one six months ago." She bitterly snapped, John's fists now clenched tight. Sherlock instead rolled his eyes, knowing that this is what she was going to be like considering he has had it for a weeks.

"Lestrade phoned Sherlock." John replied through gritted teeth. Sherlock saved Mary's and his life from ruin. Protectiveness and loyalty was something John thought Sherlock thoroughly deserved from him.

"Do I need to remind Lestrade that you are currently sleeping with one of the police officers on duty?" The detective interrupted, gesturing towards the officer who looked away embarrassingly when all three of them looked at him at the same time. Sherlock now had a very smug look on his face, just like he had stolen it from Donavan.

"H-how did yo…"

"Your lipstick is currently still on his face from… last night it seems. You obviously didn't have time to go home and change as the clothes you are presently wearing are severely creased just like they have been thrown to the floor in a moment of impatience. His Lacoste cologne has printed itself on to your clothes and skin. Plus…" Sherlock took a step closer, leaning to her ear, "One of your earrings is currently sitting on the top of his stab vest."

The detective smugly pushed past a vacant faced Donavon, John following behind. The doctor and Sherlock made their way up the practice's stairs and to Mr. Blessington's room. As the detective walked in, Mr Blessington was hanging from the ceiling, lifeless and pale. The room seemed to have been occupied. Several items seemed to have been used before Mr Blessington supposedly took his life. On walking in, Lestrade made his way over to them both before Sherlock took off to analyse the room, Anderson observing him rather disruptively.

"Glad you could both make it" Lestrade said walking over to stand by John, "Alright John? How's everything at home?" Lestrade politely asked, referring to the new born baby. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the conversation taking hand. They are at the scene of a man hanging from the ceiling dead, and they want to talk about the life of a new born baby who currently doesn't understand the concept of life and certainly doesn't understand what anyone is saying.

"Oh, yea, well, she is certainly keeping me up at night at the moment. The only time she doesn't cry is when Sherlock is holding her." John chuckles, both him and Lestrade turning to Sherlock who ignored the previous comment.

"How's Mary? Is she doing okay?"

"Yeah, she's doing fine. Sleeps most of the night... Lucky her, eh?!" John jokes. Lestrade smiling at the reply. Both men looked up to Mr. Blessington hanging from the ceiling, both smiles wiped off their face.

"So, what are we thinking? He gets burgled a few days previously and then hangs himself? Sad way to go." Lestrade suggests, folding his arms.

"Maybe the burglar took something precious and he can't live without it." John further suggests.

"But he said nothing was taken. Not even the money he hides in this room." Lestrade points out. John ponders on what could have been taken.

"Maybe it was a precious gem or je-"

"No." Sherlock finished for John, saving them all the pain of his ridiculous and frankly stupid conclusion.

"No? What makes you say that?" Anderson steps in. Sherlock wished he didn't do that.

"I said no. He didn't commit suicide because the "burglar" took a precious jewel or gem that was worth millions that now his life was not worth living." Sherlock sarcastically replied, eyes falling on John.

"What you're saying this is murder?" Lestrade asks, surprised Sherlock is even suggesting it could be that.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." John, Lestrade and Anderson looked at each other vacantly before their eyes fell back on Sherlock in a disbelief fashion, causing the detective to roll his eyes at how slow the three are. "Oh come on! This is primary matter!"

"So is knowing the world goes around the sun, Sherlock." John lowly responds.

"Ugh, not now John!" Sherlock replies, hands frustratingly raising in a defensive manner. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock decides to talk them through it. "The cigarette ends in the ashtray on his desk. Three of th-"

"He's a chain smoker. He had three then ended it." Anderson interrupts, causing Sherlock to raise his eyebrows, extremely astonished that this was the conclusion Anderson came to. Actually, it was quite believable.

"Seriously? That's, what you got from that?" Sherlock remarked. Anderson looked to John and Lestrade who were waiting for the detective to finish his deductions. Anderson didn't respond, implying this was his deduction. The detective rolled his eyes once again.

"The cigarette ends. They all have different lip imprints at the ends implying that there was more than one man in this room at one point. Also the cigarettes are placed in the ashtray at different places meaning they were sat all opposite each other. It is highly unlikely that our friend Mr Blessington would have moved around the room to take a drag from different cigarettes. I mean, look at the size of him, he doesn't move unless necessary. Plus, the seats on the visitor's side of the desk have different indentions on them. One man fairly slim the other quite well built. You can tell by how far the indentations in the fabric spread out." All three men who were listening to the detective took a few steps closer to examine the seats, "The men were here were for a while too."

"How can you possibly know other people were here and for how long from the indentations in the seats fabric?" John calls out to Sherlock.

Sherlock turns to John, sighing under his breath. It really was quite obvious. "If they were here for a short period the seats cushions wouldn't have been pressed down as far as they have been if they were here for a long time. When you fa… When you used to fall asleep in your chair," Sherlock corrects himself because now he doesn't. Sadness floods over the detective again, "Your seat was always lower than it was. All seats do that until they form their previous shape again. Just like a memory foam mattress."

"Hang on a minute Sherlock, are you saying there was more than one man here to push him to hang himself?" Lestrade asks, Sherlock once again rolling his eyes.

"What have you been doing aside chatting in the time I have discovered all this? What is it like in your placid minds? Boring, obviously." Sherlock flatly replies.

"Sherlock, just, get on with it." John lowly answers gesturing towards the crime scene.

"Yes, men. 'Oh, how do you know that Sherlock? Well, let me enlighten you, doofus." Sherlock sarcastically replies. Sherlock pauses a second at his choice of words. Doofus. His mind was once again flooded with Jim Moriarty. A flashback from St. Bartholomew's roof appeared before him. Jim, slicked back hair and impeccable suit.

 _'There is no key DOOFUS!'_

Jim yelled in Sherlock's face. Eyes dark and wide like a collapsed star. A possessive, avaricious black hole. He did miss the game and the thrill Jim could give him. However, he didn't miss the frustration he gave him and the pain he caused when he had to leave John behind for two years. But now, there is a new frustration the criminal is causing him from beyond the grave.

Sherlock snapped back to reality, getting back to the point he was meant to say before Moriarty rudely interrupted, "The decanter," the detective points to the direction of the object for his slow companions, "It is nearly empty. One ma-"

"Blessington drank it all. One last binge drink." Anderson finished for the detective.

"Stop interrupting me Anderson!" Sherlock yelled, the forensic scientist backing away a little, "It is NOT suicide! The decanter only has about 6cm left of scotch left in it and not one man could drink a decanter of that size in under 14 hours. I last saw him at eight last night when I asked him why he thought he had been burgled and it was full to the brim. Two other men were here last night and how do I know that? Three used glasses have been placed back at the decanter. The three glasses have traces of scotch in them and there are different lip marks on each glass. Mr. Blessington was not alone here last night."

"You said you were here last night. Did you see anyone?" John asked.

"No. I came here about 3am when I was on my way home from the shops. There was no sign of a break in when I passed and there was no sign of movement inside. Plus, I was more interested in eating my pink wafers." Sherlock replied, looking to the floor a little.

"You… Went to the shops?" John asked, surprised.

"Yes," Sherlock quickly replied, eyes fixed on John for a moment, "Mr. Blessington must have been forced to his death between 8pm an-"

"5am." Anderson finished for the detective.

"Yes." Sherlock clarified for Anderson through gritted teeth. "Mr. Blessington was forced to take his death for a bizarre reason. He was wealthy, overweight and anxious."

"So, we are looking for two men? Any ideas who our murderers could be?" Lestrade asked, hands in pockets.

"Not at the moment. Check on his police records. This could shed some light on if he had any problems in his past that could lead to this." Sherlock suggested, walking towards the exit.

"Where are you going? Are you not coming to Scotland Yard?" Lestrade asked following Sherlock out of the building, John trailing behind.

"No. I'm going to do some digging of my own. Mr. Blessington looks familiar," Sherlock assumed, brows furrowed, "If you find anything let me know. John."

"Err yeah, I will see you later." John said, following Sherlock down the road, "Where are we going?"

"221B. I have an appointment with some old newspapers." Sherlock smiled, before calling for a cab.


	3. Teddy Picker

3\. Teddy Picker  
\- Let's have a game on the teddy picker.

It had been 2 hours since the detective and his doctor had left the Brook Street murder and the detective had been through 3 stacks of newspapers. John, however, was less successful with his pile, considering he had no idea what he was looking for. He always did this. Sherlock, "in the zone" and leaving him to fend for himself. The doctor didn't mind though as this was the perfect time to catch up on some much needed sleep.

John and Mary's arrival of their new born baby Amelia was the main reason why sleep was becoming a distant memory. Mary was currently at home with Amelia, too exhausted to even make a journey to Baker Street. But the doctor honestly didn't mind. It gave him a break from feeding, changing and crying. John had bought the baby to Baker Street the other week. Sherlock, however was less than impressed. The baby could have contaminated his "experiments" and bringing her would have "done nothing except intensify the chances of Amelia becoming more upset and agitated because she hasn't grasped the concept of what is happening around her." The exact words of Sherlock Holmes. How utterly charming. However, in all the moaning and groaning of Sherlock, he spent most of the afternoon holding Amelia and she didn't cry. Maybe there was something about the detective that fascinated Amelia; maybe his curly hair.

Sherlock, who was currently sat cross legged on the floor and on his fourth stack of newspapers, groaned in frustration, his hands ruffling his hair in one swish motion. John caught the noise from Sherlock, snapping out of his sleepy state.

"You ok?" John asked, moving on to the sofa opposite where Sherlock was sat.

"Hmph." The detective bluntly replied, staring at a newspaper in his hands.

The doctor picked up some newspapers, scan reading them before asking Sherlock the ultimate question, "What exactly are you looking for? If you tell me, we could get through this quicker."

Sherlock looked up from the newspapers towards John, "Mr. Blessington, when I first met him the other week when Dr. Trevelyan introduced me to him, he looked familiar, like I had seen him before and I don't mean in passing. I'm checking the newspapers from the past 10 years to see if I can find anything on him."

"Right, ok." John replied.

Both men started to inspect the newspapers for any traces of Mr. Blessington. It was highly unlikely Sherlock was wrong about seeing Mr. Blessington previously. Sherlock remembers mostly everything and anything except primary school stuff like the world goes around the sun.

"You need to get more sleep." Sherlock blurted out, deductions taking over him again.

"Yes, I am fully aware of that, Sherlock."

A little silence settled in the room. Only the sound of newspapers being picked up and placed somewhere different. Sherlock, now wanting to make conversation to prevent it from becoming even more awkward than it already was realised how strained their friendship actually was. Whenever they did talk, they argued and whenever they didn't talk, an unwanted mist filled the room which Sherlock felt very uncomfortable with.

Sherlock stammered a little before getting his words out, "How's Amelia? I-Is she um still… small?" The detective then realised how stupid he sounded and shut his eyes in disappointment.

John looked up from the newspaper, "Well, she has put on a few pounds now but she hasn't miraculously become a teenager in 2 weeks if that's what you are asking."

"It wasn't. I was um merely inquiring on how she was." The detective quickly answered back.

John focused on the newspaper, a little smile forming at the innocence of Sherlock. It was quite sweet that he was interested in someone else's life rather than his own. It was quite harsh to say that seeing Sherlock saved John and his wife in more ways than one but in some ways it was true.

"I'm surprised you remembered Amelia's name." John uttered, a smile on his face.

"I remember everyone's name." Sherlock smugly replied, placing another newspaper to the side.

"But you can't ever remember Inspector Lestrade's name." John answered back, also placing another paper to the side.

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper, "Yes I do. Inspector Garry Lestrade."

"It's Greg."

"Oh… I um… Knew that," Sherlock mumbled, "I was merely testing your memory."

Before John could even answer, Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tray containing a pot of tea and cups. John sighed, happy to see the much needed tea. Sherlock however, was less than impressed to be disturbed by Mrs. Hudson and her tea. She was 9 hours too late.

"Oh I thought it was you John! How are you? How's the baby and Mary? Are you both coping?" Mrs Hudson enquired, placing the tray on the little space of coffee table that was left from the newspapers. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the conversation once again taking place.

"Oh we're ok, you know. We're coping better than we thought and Amelia, well, she is coming on a bundle. She's even taken a liking to Sherlock." John gestured, pouring himself a cup.

"Oh that's lovely, isn't it Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson happily expressed, tapping the detective on the shoulder.

"Oh yes, brilliant." Sherlock sarcastically replied.

"Well if you ever both need a break then I'd be more than happy to look after little Amelia." Mrs. Hudson smiled. Sherlock, rolling his eyes for what seems the hundredth time today.

"Ah thank you Mrs. Hudson that's great." John smiled back.

"I will leave you boys to it then." Mrs Hudson uttered before departing the room.

Sherlock kept working through the newspapers, trying to avoid making conversation again. It wasn't as if he didn't want to hear about the baby, it was just it was the topic of most conversations. The other conversations were about Moriarty who played on the detective's mind, even when he isn't around.

"YES! I KNEW IT!" Sherlock yelled in excitement. John however, was disturbed from his sleep. He sat up from his chair and pressed his eyes together to the light. Sherlock, now sat at the desk, was scanning a newspaper article. Was he really still looking through the newspapers? It has been now… 5 hours John concluded, checking his watch. He stood from his chair and made his way over to Sherlock.

"What is it? What have you got?" The doctor questioned.

"Here," the detective pointed to the picture with the article, "Mr Blessington or should I say, Mr. Sutton."

"What? He has another name?" John questioned trying to read the article.

"No John, Mr. Sutton is his real name. I knew I had seen him before. Mr. Sutton was an informer of a robbery."

"He told the police about a robbery?" John asked, looking at the article.

"That's what we are made to believe." The detective teased. He made his way to the coat stand and slipped his coat on.

"What, Mr. Blessington was part of the robbery?" the doctor concluded, sliding on his coat too.

"He was the brains behind it all. Hard to believe I know but he is reasonably... smart" Sherlock uttered, "Time to let Lestrade know what our friend Mr. Blessington has been up to."

And with the case solved, Sherlock smugly led the way to Scotland Yard.

"Mr. Blessington was in a criminal gang." The detective stated, walking towards Inspector Lestrade. With the article in hand, Sherlock handed it to the inspector. He examined the article before responding to the consulting detective's deductions.

"But Mr. Sutton or as we know him Mr Blessington was the informer to that robbery. He made a statement."

"He did that to save his own skin. He was in a criminal gang that robbed banks. Blessington's real name was Sutton, and the other three, two of whom played the Russians that were in the practice last week, were Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat who were all part of the gang. After robbing the Worthington Bank of 700,000 pounds in 2004, Blessington (or Sutton) had turned informer, and as a result, another gang member, Cartwright, had been sentenced to prison for murdering the caretaker at the bank when in fact it was Blessington. The other three had each been given 15 years in prison." Sherlock deducted. The smug smile still firmly on his face.

"But why would he do that? They must have been his friends so why would he grass them in to the Old Bill? There must have been evidence for him being at the crime of the scene too surely?" John questioned, folding his arms.

"Blessington was talked in to being in the gang. He didn't really want to be part of it. He just needed the money. He was in debt from gambling his money away. Normally the main reason why most robberies take place. So he decided to frame his former gang members and keep the money. That's why he didn't put it into a bank and kept it in his room because he didn't want the police getting suspicious. Also because he doesn't trust banks to a certain extent."

"But what about the robbery? Did he get robbed?" Lestrade questioned, leaning over the desk.

"No. He made it up. He had heard his former gang members had been released 5 years early so he was paranoid they were coming after him and they did. The two Russian men who were in the practice last week were in fact two of the former gang members. Luckily, Blessington wasn't there when they searched his room for him. Blessington's "paranoia" was indeed a very real fear, caused by news of their early release, not by some burglary, as he claimed. The murderers chose hanging as their form of execution to avenge Cartwright."

"Blimey," Lestrade exhaled, "what a way to avenge your mate."

"Where do you think the gang members have gone?" John asked, turning to the detective.

"I'm guessing abroad. They wouldn't want to stay here anymore. I mean they got what they wanted and that was killing Blessington." Sherlock responded.

"Right, we will get them on it." The inspector declared, departing the room, shortly followed by Sherlock and John.

Both the detective and the doctor made their way out of Scotland Yard. John checking his phone for messages from Mary but there was nothing. He sighed in relief. A little more time away. Even though he wanted some space to himself sometimes, John felt as if he shouldn't be away at all. Even though Sherlock says otherwise, he believes Moriarty is still out at large. There is no sufficient or reliable evidence to prove he is dead. He was the king of his own empire. Sherlock destroyed his network. The only person who could display Moriarty on every screen in the UK has be Moriarty himself. Only he had the power to do so and even the government were quivering in their shoes when it all happened. They both hadn't made any progress in 6 months over how Moriarty is back. And Sherlock's overdose on the plane doesn't prove he is right. It only proves he is still an addict. Moriarty is still out there. No body was found on the roof. Doesn't this prove he is staying alive?


End file.
